I’ve never read Yevtushenko’s work, so I can’t comment on his poetry; however, his autobiography is very, very good. I admit to crying multiple times, particularly in his depiction of Stalin’s funeral, however, it collapses toward the end, wherein Yevtushenko spends twenty pages being very smug, very self-congratulatory, and very, very arrogant. When he writes about the Russian people, he is incredibly moving; when he writes about himself, he just comes off like a pompous ass.
Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko (Russian: Евгений Александрович Евтушенко; born 18 July 1933 in Zima Junction, Siberia) is a Soviet and Russian poet. He is also a novelist, essayist, dramatist, screenwriter, actor, editor, and a director of several films.